It was only a couple of years ago that I'd been his bodyguard in the Regiment. He recognized me straight away and shot out his hand to greet me. 'Nice to see you again.' I felt at home already.
I felt even more so when I met the managing director of the outfit, Major Ian Crooke. When I knew him in the Regiment he had been OC of A Squadron, then Ops Officer. He was part of the outside team collating intel and information during the Embassy siege in 1980. When you've been through something like that together, you've bonded forever. Stunning though that episode was, his most daring exploit took place a year later. He and two senior NCOs from B Squadron were sent to 'observe and advise' on a Marxist coup in the Commonwealth nation of the Gambia. It was when he got to the capital, Banjul, that he took the expression 'going beyond the call of duty' to a spectacular new level. Being the loose cannon he was, Crookie proceeded to do a little bit more than observe and advise. He decided to end the coup single-handed.
The rebels had taken control of the key infrastructure in and around Banjul whilst the president, Sir Dawda Jawara, was in the UK as an honoured guest at the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer. While the happy couple were sunning themselves on honeymoon on board Britannia, Crookie and his team flew in to neighbouring Senegal. They casually strolled across the border into the Gambia dressed in jeans and T-shirts and carrying rucksacks crammed with Heckler & Koch MP5s, Browning pistols and an ample supply of ammunition.
Arriving in the capital, they quickly assessed the situation and found the rebels in control of key positions. In particular, members of the president's family and other high-placed dignitaries were being held hostage at the main hospital. Totally undaunted, Crookie and his NCOs acquired white coats and stethoscopes and arrived at the hospital in nothing more threatening than a taxi. With the element of surprise on their side they quickly disarmed the rebels and freed the hostages. Next, they established contact with an elite force of French-trained Senegalese paratroopers who'd also arrived at the request of the president. Crookie introduced himself to their senior officer and promptly took command of the unit. Leading the counter-attack from the turret of an armoured car and with his two sergeants running the assault groups, he routed the rebels and dislodged them from their strongholds in the army barracks, the radio station and the police armoury. Without further ado, he and his team hopped on a plane and headed back to Hereford. Freeing a small African state from Communist rebels – all in a day's work for the SAS! Back home the top brass were spitting blood at how he'd gone beyond his brief. They were on the verge of court-martialling him. In the end they changed their minds and gave him a DSO for outstanding bravery instead.
I had definitely found the right outfit. KAS was obviously the RollsRoyce of security companies – the right address, the right contacts and the right people at the top. It was like the civilian wing of the Regiment. Another squadron, only better pay. I couldn't wait to start.
I soon found my former comrade. 'What've you got, Tak?'
'Diamonds. Are you interested?' His Fijian features broke into a wide grin.
'I'm interested. Tell me more.'
Tak briefed me on the deal. My first assignment was to be one half of a two-man team providing security for an exhibition at the St James Club, just down the road in Mayfair. And the subject of the exhibition? A mere £3 million of jewellery! Although access to the exhibition was strictly reserved for members of the club itself – a real Who's Who of top society names – this was still a daunting prospect. I pretended to take it all in my stride, but relief swept over me when I heard who my fellow operative would be. My partner for the job of making sure the gems didn't go AWOL was Tak's compatriot Tom the Fijian.
Tom was now fully recovered from the heavy-duty burns he received at the Embassy siege, when his abseil gear became jammed and he swung into the fierce flames coming from the second-floor windows. His legs were very badly burned. But once he'd been cut free, his severe injuries didn't stop him storming the telex room and slotting the terrorist Makki who'd just opened fire on the hostages, killing the assistant press attaché and badly wounding Dr Afrouz, the chargé d'affaires. For his heroism, Tom was awarded the George Medal. I was in good company.
Talk about diamonds are forever! It was like a scene from a James Bond film. The exhibition room was crammed with spotlit glass cases glittering with more jewels than you could shake an AK-47 at. I glanced up, half-expecting a black-clad cat burglar to be abseiling down from the ceiling. We appraised the situation, then took up tactical positions to prevent any smash-and-grab attempt. One man took up station in the corridor by the door, the other in the room overlooking the cabinets.
At first it went very well. We had a procession of high-fliers coming to take a look including Peter de Savary, former owner of the club itself, who'd made his fortune in shipping and oil. He swept in magisterially, surrounded by his entourage of bright young men, had a quick glance at the gems, then marched out again. I imagine he could have bought the lot if he'd wanted to.
All went smoothly until after lunch. That's when the problems started – or should I say staggered in – in the form of Leonard of Mayfair. Leonard Lewis was the UK's first superstar celebrity hairdresser. One of the founder members of the Swinging Sixties, his iconic 'crop' look shot Twiggy to supermodel stardom. His fingers had styled the hair of the most famous celebrities and Hollywood stars of three decades, from the Beatles to Princess Diana. But the pressures of fame and – unknown to me – a brain tumour had taken their toll, and he was now reduced to a pitiful alcoholic.
Each day he would lurch in at 2.30pm on the dot and launch a torrent of abuse at Tom and myself. But his antics gave me real pause for thought. Just how could the famous Leonard of Mayfair end up a drunk? A man who had been a millionaire and rubbed shoulders with the high and mighty? I would have to be careful. Civvy Street was obviously not all plain sailing. You might not end up shot to pieces, but there were different dangers to face.
The first day was uneventful until it came to closing time, when the drama began. To call it a disastrous breakdown in communication would be an understatement. During previous exhibitions, the diamonds had been taken under heavy guard to the Knightsbridge Security Deposit Centre and held there overnight. Unfortunately, the slight matter of one of the world's largest-ever bank heists had recently taken place there, led by Italian master criminal Valerio Viccei. He and his gang had pillaged cash, gold and jewels conservatively estimated at £125 million from over a hundred boxes in the facility. Not only had the raid led to the temporary closure of the facility, but it had also prompted a climate of fear and insecurity amongst the top jewellers in London.
When we queried the overnight arrangements, the near-hysterical owner of the jewels said – and this is the polite version – 'Sort it out. That's what I pay you for. Put them in the club's safe.' One slight problem – the St James Club's management were not prepared to let us use their safe, claiming their insurance wouldn't cover a potential £3 million theft. By this time, the staff at KAS had all left for home. Pre-mobile phones, it was impossible to contact them. As usual, we were isolated, left to our own devices. Some things don't change, I thought, as a picture flashed into my mind of being abandoned and helpless in a prison cell in Hong Kong.
Of all things, Tesco carrier bags solved the problem. Taking a leaf out of Crookie's book, we decided to use our initiative and go over and above the call of duty. After paying a visit to the local supermarket, we split the diamonds into two plastic bags and sauntered off through Mayfair, carrying the priceless contents as if it was the day's shopping. Our accommodation for the week was in the converted attic at KAS's HQ in South Audley Street. Incredibly, there was no safe in the office. That's how I ended up with half the stash – a cool £1.5 million pounds of precious stones – tucked up in bed with me. As I drifted off to sleep, it occurred to me that when Crookie found out, we'd either get the mother of all bonuses or the mother of all bollockings!
It did the trick. The
week passed off without incident and the jewels were returned to their relieved owner. Job done. But little did I know this was just my probation. This was my starter for ten.
A bigger job was in the offing.
20
Champagne and Diamonds
'Eighty million pounds' worth of diamonds! You've got to be joking! You really can't be serious.'
'Shouldn't be a problem,' said Tak in his usual laid-back manner. He was a man of few words. Why use fifty when five would do?
Crookie had been pleased at how the St James Club assignment had gone, in spite of the misunderstanding about overnighting the jewels. He went out of his way to thank us for a job well done. Christ, I thought, that was a piece of cake. Easy money. I don't remember getting a pat on the back after Mirbat. But whilst the praise was genuine, I could tell Crookie was leading up to something else.
This was the big one. The contract was with one of the most famous jewellers in the world. He was a real larger-than-life character, an ebullient buccaneer of the diamond trade, fabled for tales of derring-do; secret assignments with clients in the dead of night, negotiations held on a remote airfield in some exotic land with the pockets of his dapper suit stuffed with priceless gems. The son of immigrants, he'd started off from very humble beginnings selling cheap rings at the markets in London's East End. He'd made his money in the Seventies, when highrolling Arab royalty flush with oil money poured through the doors of his glittering Knightsbridge store, buying up to 400 pieces at a time. A true entrepreneur, he reportedly closed one sale with a Saudi prince by convincing him the diamond he held in his hand was absolutely fated to be his. 'Here, have a closer look,' he had said, handing the prince an eyepiece to peer at the gem. He'd inserted a minuscule photograph of the client into the stone's setting, so when the prince looked into it he saw himself glittering back!
With formidable drive, he had established himself at the head of a business spanning the whole range of the diamond industry, from mining, cutting and polishing right through to the design and production of the jewellery itself.
His major break came when he acquired the one client everyone was after – the supremely wealthy twenty-ninth Sultan of Brunei, then the world's richest man. Our client reserved the very best of his major gems for the Sultan and his three wives. The Sultan's patronage had opened some very heavily guarded doors amongst the mega-rich of Asia and the Far East.
Our job now was to fly out to Brunei and take £80 million of jewellery to the Sultan's palace. Eight-zero millions. A small matter of a wedding gift for the Sultan's brother. Tak was coming with me on this job and I met with him for the security briefing. 'What are we going to use for transporting the diamonds to the airport?' I enquired. 'A Group 4 armoured car? Motorcycle outriders? Two-car convoy?'
Tak's reply, when it came, was short, sharp and to the point. 'Low profile. Two briefcases and a four-door production saloon.' It transpired our cavalier client had picked up the habit early in his career of carrying his wares around in an ordinary-looking briefcase. It was a habit he hadn't kicked. He was coming with us to Brunei and insisted on the same low-key approach.
My heart sank. This was a security headache of gigantic proportions. £80 million of gems in two briefcases. Well, at least it was better than Tesco bags!
A week later, I found myself back in Knightsbridge, pulling up outside the client's Aladdin's cave of a shop in a battered and anonymous-looking old Ford Orion Ghia. I smiled to myself. The last time I'd been in this part of South Kensington I'd been dressed in allblack assault kit, wielding a Heckler & Koch and breaking into the Iranian Embassy. Now I was suited and booted and looking every inch the successful businessman.
Tak and I left the car with the driver and entered the building. We were ushered into a back room past display cases stuffed with fabulous gems. Our client was in there, leaning nonchalantly back in an office chair. On the table in front of him, two briefcases were already packed and waiting. I picked mine up. I couldn't believe it. In my possession I now had £40 million of precious stones. Our client was either a very clever man or a very foolhardy one.
Now came the dangerous bit. If we were going to be hit, chances are it would be while walking to the car outside. Casual, nice and casual. Switched on, every sense on high alert, every muscle tensed and pumping with adrenaline, yet sauntering casually towards the car as if we were mere accountants with briefcases full of invoices and ledgers. We had to look as if we'd just attended a business meeting and were heading back to our office. We were ready for trouble, but nothing, not the merest flinch, not the merest split-second, sharp-eyed glance around the street outside should betray the true contents of the cases. I felt almost naked. We were not even handcuffed to the briefcases, with a raincoat casually slung over the wrist to conceal the chains. Too much of a giveaway. The professional villain wouldn't fall for that one. Absolutely nothing should draw attention to ourselves. Those few steps felt like climbing Everest.
Relief. We were inside the car. Time to go. I had hoped that Tak would source a car with enough power to really shift in the event that we picked up a tail. The old Orion was never going to set the world alight, but I had trusted that at least it would start on the button. The driver turned the ignition key. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. Shit, it's not going to start! I was as tense as a tightrope. I knew we should have used a BMW.
The driver tried a third time. Suddenly the Orion burst into life. With Tak and our wealthy passenger sitting in the back we glided away and joined the flow of traffic. No dramatics. No wheel spins. There could be watchers with radios waiting to identify us to other gang members waiting in ambush en route. The hijack on the Falls Road flashed back into my mind and I double-checked all the doors were locked. We were very exposed now. As we joined the Cromwell Road heading for the M4, I fished out of my pocket my own stick-on rearview mirror. I fixed it firmly in place, adjusting it for optimum vision. I wanted to put in maximum mirror time for counter-surveillance during the vulnerable miles to the airport. I sat upright, the briefcase cradled between my feet, tensing at every red light, every junction, every slow-moving roundabout.
We reached Heathrow without incident. This was worse. Still couldn't relax, not for a millisecond. Too many strangers milling around, too many potential threats. Too much ambient noise to pick up quickening steps behind us. Mercifully, we were given the red carpet treatment and were whisked through in no time to the haven of the First Class section of the BA flight to Brunei. We took our briefcases as hand luggage, mightily relieved we were not asked to open them by security staff before boarding.
On board it was like a flying Michelin-starred restaurant. Unlimited free champagne, and vintage champagne at that. One bottle finished, another brought over without even asking. I had to pinch myself. Quite something when you're accustomed to business-class flying being the para seats on a military C-130. Strapped into the hard bucket seats with no arms to rest on, back against the fuselage, staring blankly for hours on end at the high stack of stores strapped down under a cargo net along the centre of the plane, right in front of our faces. Serve-yourself haversack rations – crisps, ham sandwiches and a cold drink if you were lucky. The noise, the vibration, the juddering and shaking indescribable. And now this, the Rolls-Royce of flying experiences. Pausing briefly at the head of the runway, the captain opened up the engines to full throttle and we were away.
Now all we had to worry about was the main threat: arrival in Brunei.
21
The Sultan's Palace
During the flight, I gave a lot of thought to the dangers ahead. At my feet, a harmless-looking briefcase, part and parcel of every businessman's standard equipment. And yet, and yet. I tried not to think about it. So much wealth concentrated into so little space. If some would-be criminal had got wind of this particular consignment, the temptation would be massive. My heart was beginning to sink. Why did I ever agree to this hare-brained plan to go low-profile with such a huge stash of gems? And no weapon
s to defend ourselves with either.
I did a mental check of 'what ifs'. What if there was an operation in place ready to make the hit in the arrivals hall in Brunei? This prize would certainly warrant planning on an international scale. What if someone in the UK had briefed the advance party at our destination of our flight number and arrival time? What if they'd set up a trigger in arrivals, a spotter to ID the target and let the outside team know? We'd have to run the gauntlet of the paging area, all the chauffeurs and minibus drivers searching for their clients. Not just one or two, but everyone staring at you as you walk out. This would be an ideal spot to eyeball two guys carrying briefcases and with bulging muscles you don't get from pushing bits of paper from one side of a desk to the other.
Then what if we picked up a tail in transit from the airport to our hotel? It would be night-time. A stick-on mirror would be useless. The dazzling effect of car headlights behind us, even on dip, let alone deliberately on beam, makes it virtually impossible to ID a suspect vehicle in the rear view. And as for identifying the occupants, you could forget that. And yet another 'what if '. What if they'd got to someone in the hotel? Getting out of the car and into the hotel, another key vulnerability. Another serious threat.
Soldier I Page 33